Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance (6 page)

“Take care, love,” he says in a clipped voice. “I’d hate it if anything happened to you while you were keeping bad company.”

“I can take a shower,” I continue mildly. “A bad smell washes off. Crazy is a lot harder to get rid of, I hear.”

Cat pinches my side in a silent warning, but I don’t look down at her. I keep my eyes on Nico, ready to meet his Psycho with my Badass Motherfucker when he finally achieves eye contact, but he glances over his shoulder, instead. “Let’s head uptown, Petey. I need to be at the office no later than noon. Take care, Catherine. We’ll talk soon,” he tosses over his shoulder as he circles around Cat and steps off the curb.

I turn, Cat still held close, to see a beefy guy who tops out at about five six, wearing a dark suit and standing on the other side of the car, which I now realize is a limo. That explains the short guy’s chauffer cap, but not the look of hatred on his face. The man shoots me a glare that makes it clear he’d like to pull my guts out through my nose and then shifts his attention to Cat, who he clearly has no love for, either.

If anything, his rage level seems to increase when his gaze lands on her face, and by the time he shuts Nico’s door behind him and opens his own, his cheeks are red and his beady brown eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his face.

“Nico’s cousin Petey,” Cat whispers through clenched teeth. “I’m pretty sure he’s in charge of disappearing people who piss Nico off.”

“Small, but feisty, then.”

“Small, but deadly,” she corrects.

I nod slowly, knowing further discussion of Petey’s “disappearing” skills have to wait until we’re alone, but inside I’m putting together the pieces of this puzzle to make an ugly picture. Cat hasn’t just gotten on the wrong side of one very bad man. She’s gotten on the wrong side of one very bad man, his very bad friends, and maybe even a very bad branch of very organized fucking crime.

Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

Cat never did do things halfway. Why should her psycho-ex-lover situation be any different?

CHAPTER EIGHT

From the collected notes of Curved for her Pleasure

and Polka Dot Panties

Dear Curve,

I hesitated to write this because I know you’re not into the touchy feely stuff, but then I had another beer and decided what the hell? You only live once!

So I’m writing to thank you for shutting down that whiny little shit Marty this afternoon. As you know, I take great pride in winning races fair and square, with a combination of superior skill and keen intellect.

To be accused of kissing you where you pee in order to get the specs of the trails ahead of time was insulting, not only to me, but to my entire gender. That freshman dick’s assumption that the only way a girl can win as often as I do is if she’s getting preferential treatment from the man in charge is a huge steaming pile of bullshit.

If you hadn’t set him straight, I would have had to kick his ass, and that would have sucked because I’m committed to nonviolent conflict resolution since that time I almost killed a man in Kathmandu.

So basically, you’re awesome, and I respect the shit out of you for making a club that could have become a big, fat, unwelcoming-to-girls-and-other-decent-people testosterone fest an enjoyable place to be for folks of all sexes, races, and sexual orientations.

Rock on with your bad self,

PDP

Dear PDP,

The phrase “kiss you where you pee” is probably the cutest thing I’ve ever read. I debated the wisdom of telling you that you’re cute because I know you’re probably a super-soldier sleeper spy who’s going to lose your shit in a flashback someday and take out anyone who ever reminded you that you’re also an adorable redhead, but I couldn’t help myself.

I’ve had a few beers, too.

Related: drunk-note-writing is a lot more work than drunk-dialing.

Maybe we should exchange numbers so I can text you when you’re being cute? Let me know. I would like to experience in real time your irritated responses to things I write.

Will keep rocking on with my bad self,

Curve

P.S. No worries about shutting down that dirt-surfing snot goblin. No one fucks with you on my watch, kid.

Dear Curve,

Several things:

One: I am not a kid. I am two years younger than you and I’m going to be able to buy my own beer in less than a year so you should respect my near full adultness.

Two: I am not a super-solider sleeper spy. (Or maybe that’s just what I have to say to preserve my cover. Boom. Just blew your mind.)

Three: I’m not sure it’s kosher to exchange numbers. Aren’t we supposed to respect the sanctity of the hole? It’s right there in the rulebook: all Dasher communications outside of running hours shall be conducted via notes stuffed in the Union Soldier statue’s secret hole. Respect the hole.

Four: I am not cute or adorable, but it’s cute and adorable that you think I am. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that beneath your tough, take-no-prisoners façade you’re basically composed of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and old lady face lotion.

Respecting the hole and not giving you my digits—but if you want to give me yours, I might make use of them.

Someday.

If you’re lucky.

Adorably yours,

Panties

Dear Panties,

Why old lady face lotion? I have to know…

C, aka Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens

555-3476

Text from Panties to Curve: My number is blocked so hard you’ll never figure out my digits so don’t even try, but this is Panties.

Curve: So are you really a spy? Or in the witness protection program?

Or a former drug lord posing as an innocent co-ed while you hide out from a rival cartel and plot their downfall?

That would explain a lot of things about you, Panties.

Panties: Lol! Like what? I don’t do drugs. If I did, my dad would kill me and then resurrect me through dark magic just to kill me all over again.

I don’t even drink anything harder than light beer.

Curve: Yes, but for a skinny person, you can drink an insane amount of light beer without getting fucked up.

But you’re right. You’re not the drug lord type.

I’m sticking with spy. When the feds come sniffing around and suddenly you’re nowhere to be found, I won’t be surprised.

Panties: Don’t be silly. If I’m spying for anyone, it’s Uncle Sam. I’m a patriot. I bleed red, white, and blue.

Now, do you want to know why you’re made of old lady face lotion, or not?

Curve: Yes. Desperately. Do tell.

Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens felt right, but I didn’t know what I did to deserve to be composed of one-third stank-ass face cream.

Panties: I didn’t mean the stinky kind. I meant the nice kind that smells like cucumbers and sea salt. Like my gram used to wear.

I lived with her when I was little. She was very cool and fun and let me have cookies every day after school. So, to me, the smell of old lady face lotion is the smell of a safe, fun place where there are cookies.

So…there you go…

Curve: Wow…

That’s sweet, Panties. Thank you.

I’m glad that the club is a safe, cookie kind of place for you.

Panties: Yeah, well. Whatever.

Don’t take any of that too seriously.

I’ve had four beers and my roommate is watching Sense and Sensibility and Colonel Brandon just confessed his soldier love to Marianne. The combo is making me uncharacteristically sentimental.

Curve: Sometimes I wonder if you drink too much, Red. And if it’s our fault for supplying you with beer when you were a freshman.

Panties: Nah. I drank before I came to college.

It’s the way I deal with the flashbacks after Kathmandu.

Curve: Sometimes I’m not sure when you’re kidding.

Panties: And that’s the way I like it. ;)

Sweet dreams, C.

Curve: Sleep tight, Panties. Don’t let the crazy bugs bite.

Panties: Too late.

Curve: For you and me both, kid.

CHAPTER NINE

I want to slam my fist into the hood of Nico the Psycho’s car and shout after him that it will be a cold day in hell when he lays a hand on Red again. Instead, I stand on the sidewalk with my arm around her waist, doing my best to look bored until the limo is out of sight.

Dicks like Nico love rapping the glass until the animals start freaking out and hurling themselves against the bars, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So I turn to smell the shampoo and sunshine smell of Cat’s hair and think smug thoughts about how clearly turned-on she was while I was kissing her and how satisfying it is that Nutjob Nico heard at least part of our hot-as-fuck conversation. But the second the sleek, black Mercedes turns the corner, I release Cat with a growl and jab a finger toward the subway entrance.

“Subway. Now,
Catherine
.”

She wrinkles her nose so hard the bridge turns white. “It’s Cat. Red or Panties if you’re on my good side. Ms. Legend if you’re nasty.”

“Thanks, Janet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I thought your last name was Jones.”

Her gaze shifts to the right as she picks nervously at a loose thread on her purse strap. “Well, it’s not. I gave Bash a false last name. For me, and for Nico.”

“And why’s that?” I drive a clawed hand through my hair. “Just to fuck this up before we even get started? Or is lying something you do to entertain yourself when being stalked by a psycho starts to get boring?”

“None of this is entertaining,” she snaps, her cheeks flushing pink before she lets out an unexpected stutter of laughter. “Okay, so maybe the part where you called Nico a sack of amputated goat anuses was a little bit fun. But that’s it.”

“Bash and I have a running contest to see who can come up with the best insults for our clients’ exes.” I concentrate on keeping my scowl firmly in place, refusing to let her husky laugh throw me off course. “So why the fake name,
Cat
?”

It really does fit her, and not just because of the green eyes and the mischief factor. It fits her because she’s sneaky as shit and diabolically unpredictable, just like a fucking feline.

“I did it for your own good,” she says. “To protect you. And Bash.” She glances over my shoulder before turning to peer over her own, back toward the café where a line has formed as the tables fill up for lunch. Finally, when she’s sure the coast is clear, she adds in a soft voice, “I didn’t want to put anything in writing, just in case he’s still reading my email.”

“Nico?”

She nods, tugging harder on the purse string. “I change my email password every day, but I’m not sure that’s enough to stop him, and I don’t—” She cuts off, wincing as the string snaps off in her hand. She shakes it onto the ground with a rush of breath. “We shouldn’t talk about this here, and we shouldn’t fight in public, either. There’s a chance we’re being watched. Just because Nico drove away doesn’t mean he didn’t leave someone behind to keep tabs on me.”

I stand up straighter, fighting the urge to turn and scan the crowd beginning to clog the street as the office buildings set their cubicle jockeys free for the lunch hour. “You’re sure you’re not being paranoid?” I ask, though my gut says she’s not. Nico is clearly crazy and also clearly has the funds to pay someone to follow his ex around and scare her shitless.

“I’m sure,” Cat says, teeth worrying her bottom lip. “He sent photos to my office last week. He said his associate was following me to keep me safe until he could protect me himself, but the real message came through loud and clear.”

My jaw tightens. “That you’re being watched.”

She shakes her head. “No, that Nico can get to me anywhere. There were shots of me inside a closed courtroom where I was representing a client and at a friend’s restaurant where you need a secret code to get through the door.” She crosses her arms, her shoulders hunching as if against the cold, though it’s at least eighty-five degrees outside. “There was even a shot from inside the dressing room at my gym. I was coming out of the shower. Judging by the angle, I’m guessing the guy was hiding under the lockers. But I had no idea I wasn’t alone until I saw the images. If he’d wanted to do more than take a picture I would have been dead before I had any clue I needed to run.”

My gut clenches. “Fuck me.”

“I didn’t think that was allowed,” she says, a hint of the old smartass in her tone as she hitches her purse higher on her shoulder. “The contract I signed said that things between us will never go further than a kiss.”